


In cinders we bathe, with destruction on the tip of our tongues

by Vivian



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, Utumno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2390138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon tells them he is but a humble spirit in the service of his master Aulë and his kin. Centuries have to pass until he understands the meaning of his actions: he is lying. Mairon is neither humble nor does he want to serve. He wants to create. There is a vision in his heart, a hungry, screaming thing it is, and it demands everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In cinders we bathe, with destruction on the tip of our tongues

 

The ash blackens his hands. Stains his tunic, breaths onto his cheeks and makes his lips taste bitter.

Mairon leaves the smithy with his chin levelled high, but it doesn't feel like his work is done. There is a command of power in his heartbeat that tells him, it is not enough. Never quite what he intends it to be. The thought is not imposed on him from the outside, rather his work is praised and welcomed with gratefulness. And Mairon nods and tells them he is but a humble spirit in the service of his master Aulë and his kin. Centuries have to pass until he understands the meaning of his actions: he is lying. Mairon is neither humble nor does he want to serve. He wants to create. There is a vision in his heart, a hungry, screaming thing it is, and it demands everything.

 

The iron leaves traces underneath his skin. A sizzling electric whisper. When others use obsidian, granite, marble, Mairon uses iron. It is closer to his heart. Sparks like mayflies vaporised in a golden dawn, a fireball cracking open the sky, heavy with grey-red, gently blurred clouds, pregnant with doom. Yes, doom. Mairon is not sure where this may lead him but lead him it shall.

So when Melkor comes to his smithy and does not utter a word, just beholds his work, standing tall like a tower and black as the night, it is enough to kindle something inside him. To wake his hunger. Melkor, whose face is like marble carved into puissant and solemn lines, alight with a spirit unchangeable and everlasting. And he feels the want, the force that lies in the hard curve of Melkor's lips when he smiles.

Mairon is a maker. He creates with his hands. And Melkor understands. The hunger. The beast. The joy. He who creates first must destroy. Melkor understands that, too.

Mairon knows then, he will follow him to the end of all things.

 

Of Melkor's worst deeds they count the corruption of spirits and him among them. But what is corruption other than changing the form of something?

May they think what they will. May they whisper of seduction and of lies. It's the knowledge of fools all the same. He has nothing to atone for but the unravelling of himself. He is not marred nor besmirched. No trammels bind him anymore. He is who he was always meant to be.

They are given other names, curses of fearful enemies. Mairon laughs at them, because they do not understand that names hold power, too and these new names will give them more of it as they spread from mouth to mouth over land and sea.

 

Where Melkor walks, destruction follows. His steps are crates of mountain size, if he but wills it. In his laughter there are thunders and tremblors; hurricanes the breath from his lips.

And Mairon walks beside him unharmed. For he is his second in command now, his lieutenant and his most loyal follower. Beside him he breaths fire and ash and glory.

With his hands he creates still, but now with his will he gives and takes life after his own fancies. The world is his to mould. And his vision grows.

 

When Melkor's blackened hands pull him closer, Mairon looks up and laughs into his face. He is full of golden joy and glowing destruction and Melkor knows and wants and takes him. There is iron in the meeting of their mouths, and Melkor licks the ash from his lips. Life is such a fickle thing yet between them life and death are born and bred all the same. The hunger is rejoicing inside him, celebrating freedom in the pulse of his raging blood. And he knows their union was inevitable.

—Feast on my hunger, he whispers into Melkor's ear. There are fingers twisted into his hair and he is pushed down. Melkor's spirit is a night-black billow crashing on the rocks of his soul. And he takes everything.

—Erstwhile thou wast afraid but what of fear when the whole world will bend her knee before us? Melkor murmurs into his skin. Yet his words go deeper still, they make a bed for themselves inside of him.

 

They wage war with every breath they take. Mairon smiles when he wanders the earth as a whisper, when he commands words that will grow and grow in the minds of their enemies. Soon the time to harvest will have come. Mairon awaits it with a trembling heart.

In Utumno he is needed for his master's temper is too hot, so Mairon organises all things that need to be considered. The iron halls sing the echo of his footsteps, the light of the torches dances on his skin.

Not always he is nigh his master, but his mind is reaching for him all the same, pale fingertips yearning to touch. Patience, Mairon tells himself. Yet when he has not seen his lord for too long,  the foundations of his being are shaken, he tips over the edge, raging, then murmuring soothing words when he stitches himself back together. Many an orc he slashed to pieces that was in his way when longing gripped his throat.

He says none of it when he lays down in Melkor's chambers. He is calm then, makes his spine curve and smiles the way he always had: with too little respect. Melkor laughs at it every time for he knows where Mairon's sympathies for forever lie. He is grim and terrible in his surety. Mairon wants to kiss him.

—Dwell not on our parting, Melkor murmurs.

—I do not, Mairon replies, before Melkor grabs his throat with one hand.

Mairon sucks in a shuddering breath, pulling Melkor closer and between his legs. Underneath Melkor his whole body arches upwards, his head tips back and his long golden curls fall over his face. Slowly he slides his hands over Melkor's, the black skin underneath his fingertips is warm. The grip around his throat tightens. It matters not, he needs no air, no other aliment than his master's lust. Laughter sways from his lips when Melkor grinds against him, his face so stern, his dark brows knit together. Their bodies are greedy things. Hands and legs and hips and mouths; they devour each other, press kisses into skin and suck bruises that touch the bone. And why not slice each other open, why not taste on the tip of their tongues what their bodies are made of. So much flesh, skin, sinew, so much trembling lust in the strands of their muscles. What is it that commences them but hunger?

With blood and ash he paints his master's lithic body, with whispers and murmurs he asseverates his devotion.

—Ten thousand of the new slaves of the Valar I would tear apart for thee, hew them to bathe thee in their blood. With my will I shall mould from clay creatures for thy use. With my hands I shall serve thee and do thy bidding. With my mouth I shall bring down nations with but a few whispered words.

Melkor's kiss upon his lips, he smiles.

—Thou wilt not disappoint me.

Mairon smiles back at him

—No I shall not.

 

 

Then the Valar lay siege to Utumno, tear down their walls and slaughter their servants. They trammel his master with the great chain Angainor. And Mairon cursed his existence the first time.

He flees to Angband, deep, deep into the ground where no ray of light falls on his quivering form. Where no-one hears his cries and no-one sees him tearing out his hair.

 

But he will not disappoint, he will continue his master's work. troupes must be ready when Melkor comes back, a host of creatures filled with Mairon's black desperation. For his master must come back. There is no other way.

—Three ages, these words are spoken quietly into his ear. Three ages until Melkor shall walk beside him once more. So Mairon lays in wake. Slyly he commands armies, quietly he puts into place what later will be needed. Not a minute there is to waste.

It is the first time, Mairon walks alone. And he finds that he is able to, if bitterly so.

There is something in his heart, an image, a vision. He shall endure. And if he has to tear apart every fibre of this world, so he shall.

There is still ash on his lips and whispers of iron underneath his skin.

He blackens his hands with cinders and waits.

**Author's Note:**

> This just happened. Angbang currently rules my life. Not Beta'd.  
> Please let me know what you think!  
> & say 'Hi' to me on [tumblr](http://lieutenant-mairon.tumblr.com) if you like.  
> 


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